


The Erotica Arc: Trowa/Heero

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several unrelated scenarios set in separate small universes exploring Trowa’s possible sexual relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Erotica Arc: Trowa/Heero

**Author's Note:**

> Completed fall 2003. In no specific order, several scenarios set in separate small universes exploring Trowa’s possible sexual relationships.

He had heard about it. In the camps, sometimes in alleys of L3 between when he had left the mercenary camps and went to take Trowa Barton’s place. There was talk of all sorts of things. Growing up, the presence of sex was an everyday part of life for him, just as mild drugs, fighting and everything else that civilized man decried as being immoral were. He remembered the captain looking at him, a man who he had heard was raised in refugee camps after previous wars himself, and he would appear terribly saddened when he saw Nanashi wandering the campgrounds. But he never said anything, and later Trowa shot him down and killed him.

There was the talk though. He would dream about it sometimes, when the older men caught him touching himself once and had laughed, and the entire camp had laughed and everyone had known. After that, he had laid on his cot motionless and more quiet than before, and had drawn as little attention to himself as possible. But those were back in the days when he was a child, and now he heard about it more. Sex. Sex that wasn’t the sort of dumb, blind way that men would fuck women and leave them, and other men would chuckle and punch them in the arm. This was sex that got whistled at, revered in legends amongst men and never talked about amongst women.

Once there was a man in the mercenary camp who fucked another man, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it was way that it had been whispered about. Unnatural sex that moral people would scoff at but that soldiers didn’t talk about, sex with implements and mind games, and the same set of rules that applied to the battle field. This man was caught in the act, and then there was no use in trying to pretend like it hadn’t happened. Instead, he was dragged out into a field and shot a few days later by an anonymous killer, and no one questioned it after that. No one wanted a man-fucker amongst them, a queer, a homosexual who wanted to shove his dick in every man’s ass. Or at least that’s what Trowa heard the men describe it as, but he kept his mouth shut.

He knew his tent-mate bedded men. He never said anything, no threat required. Sometimes, when he was a little older, he would dream of Ralph, an old friend who was kind to him during his mercenary days and around his age, and he would wake up in a cold sweat with moisture clinging to him, the bed a mess from the things happening in the dreams. Then the dreams changed, and they became someone else, a certain someone else that he tried to forget. He despised the dreams, terrible as they were, about Heero Yuy, pilot of Gundam Wing that he had retrieved from death.

He had never had sex anyone, hadn’t touched himself since he was young after his harrowing experience of humiliation. But things didn’t work out quite as he had planned, and he found out that Heero also had dreams, but not about him. They were about Relena Darlian, and he had woken up one night calling her name in Italy where they had been staying.

“You have dreams about her?” he had asked through the darkness, and Heero had just looked at him darkly, his blue eyes glittering ominously in the sparse light that filtered through the windows. He didn’t answer. “I heard you,” he added, but didn’t sound accusatory.

“I hear you too,” Heero replied from the other bed after a short stint of silence, and Trowa tensed on his thin mattress. “You’ve said my name before.”

This time, he didn’t answer.

“Why?” Heero persisted.

“Why what?”

“Why have you woken up saying my name?” Heero asked cautiously, as if he knew the answer but needed to verify the reality.

“The same reason you’ve said Relena’s name,” Trowa replied, perturbed. Humiliation crippled what was left of a spirit in him all over again.

That night passed away into day, and they slept their conversation off like an unpleasant experience with booze. There was no hangover, but the memory hung like a residual bad taste in Trowa’s mouth for months afterward and he could hear Heero’s words ringing over and over again in his head. Why my name?

Then there was a time later, a bad social experiment with normal living, when Heero had gotten drunk. It was after the war, just after, when he had no place to go. So Wing’s pilot had followed Trowa for a little while. They had been in his trailer, and Heero had gotten his hands on some vodka. He knew the effects and had told Trowa he wanted to get drunk, wanted to see what it was like at least once because he had never done anything frivolous and everyone did things like that.

So they had taken shots and then mixed things up, and Heero was shit-faced a lot faster than Trowa would have given him credit for. Through his life everyone around him had drank to the point of excess; in camps, on bases, at the circus. Alcohol was the cheapest good-time drug available and less dangerous than all the new things people were concocting these days. God only knew what they had come up with on the colonies, so alcohol had played a regular role in his life; there was nothing foreign about it to him. But to Heero, it was like discovering sin’s long lost ambrosia.

“Do you still dream?” he had asked Trowa from where he was sitting on the floor. Trowa looked up from where he was reading and raised a brow. Heero was a depressing drunk.

“Not very often,” he said, and shrugged. It was the truth. “Do you?”

Heero scowled. “No.” He set his mouth into a stubborn line and wouldn’t say anything else about the subject, regardless that the other boy hadn’t asked him to. He suddenly looked agitated.

“Why don’t you go to bed,” Trowa suggested, sticking a folded piece of paper in the book he had been reading and set it aside. “You’re drunk.”

“It’s a strange sensation,” Heero commented, standing.

Trowa just nodded and looked at Heero. The other boy’s eyes were wide and slightly unfocused.

Without ado or warning, he sat down on Trowa’s bed and kissed him sloppily. Trowa pushed him away and stood up, stepping away.

“You can sleep there if you want,” he offered and without waiting for an answer went into the kitchen and shut the small door behind him. The trailer’s kitchen was merely a box and consisted of a sink, a cupboard and a small burner. There was barely any counter space, just enough room for him to lean over the metal basin, one hand on either side of it, and force himself not to dry heave.

“Trowa?” Heero’s low, nasal voice came from the other side of the door. It lacked any inflection. “Open the door.”

“Go to bed,” he replied, and then didn’t say anything else. The door opened and Heero tried to enter, looking perturbed.

“What’s wrong with you?” He was certainly not very good at reading Trowa when he had been drinking, that was for sure. Normally he would have just left the other ex-pilot alone.

“I’m tired.”

“You don’t look tired,” was the astute observation.

“I am.”

“You’re angry...”

“No.”

“I thought about you sometimes,” he replied suddenly, his eyes distant. He was entrenched in a memory. “I thought about you when I...” he stopped and turned away, as if just realizing that he was intoxicated.

“Stop.” The words were some of the first that Heero had heard from Trowa that sounded remotely angry or defensive, and they were directed at him.

“There were things I thought about doing to you,” he said quietly, his voice flat. “Things that I couldn’t ever do to her, things she didn’t want and that I didn’t want to ask her.”

As he stood in the doorway, his words hung between them on a line that was stretched so tightly it looked harmless. Once it was cut though, once it snapped, the backlash would be so violent and so quick that it was akin to being dismembered and not even realizing until the arm fell away; only then would you know to scream. Regardless, Heero stood, waited and stared.

Trowa’s gaze was still fixed on the sink down into the dark drain hole, wishing he could just drain into it. He felt like dirty water and had felt like it all his life; just something waiting to be rinsed away.

Heero finally moved closer and his hand sat next to Trowa’s on the stainless steel basin. He was barely breathing and Trowa could smell his breath, tinged with heat and the scent of alcohol.

“Is that what you dreamt about?” Heero asked, and moved behind him so that he was very close, and his hand was very close and then his arms were touching Trowa’s as he leaned forward and balanced his own body behind. “Tell me,” he said darkly, sounding confused, bewildered at himself. The soldier in him was outraged at this breach in self-control.

“I don’t remember,” Trowa replied, his voice carrying a warning. Then Heero’s hands were on top of his and they were pressed up against each other, and Trowa was horrified to realize that he liked it. It was too late to try and forget the feeling; he liked this, he wanted more. He wanted what they talked about in dark alleys, late at night in camps, what men were shot for.

“That’s okay,” Heero hissed, and his words were not intended to be comforting. He lowered his head and inhaled, smelling Trowa, the fabric of his shirt, his skin underneath, the sheen of sweat that lingered on him, the faint scent of alcohol that was on his breath from earlier in the evening. Heero’s inner soldier told him he was going to regret this in the morning; he told the soldier to go to hell and stay there.

His hand pulled away the turtleneck and he rubbed his nose against Trowa’s neck, smelling him more closely, liking this familiar sensation. It reminded him of life, of the past and of the present, and he bit into it. Trowa flinched and gasped, then sighed. In the dark Heero met his strange, sweat inducing dreams and pulled their bodies backwards. His hands held Trowa’s hands in a tight grip from behind as they left the security of the edge of the metal sink.

There was stillness for a scant moment, their entwined hands pulling and pushing at one another, not quite knowing who was fighting who and for what reason, and in their small sphere of struggle they didn’t seem to move at all. Heero pushed Trowa’s hands down at his sides, and Trowa pulled their hands back upwards, and the violent charade went on for a short time.

Heero was pushing and then suddenly Trowa was pushing too, and they were both pushing in the same direction until the collection of fingers were at Trowa’s hip, laying motionless against the denim of his jeans, anchored.

“Don’t make any marks that Catherine will see,” he said quietly, and for a moment he sounded defeated as if his statement was a final verdict he had no part in deciding. But his hand pulled Heero’s against the front of his jeans and he stood very still until the hand tentatively squeezed and he let out a quick breath.

“Okay,” Heero replied, his voice sounding grainy and sobered. The teeth that nipped at his neck a few moments later felt anything but groggy however, and then he was being touched everywhere. He began to catalog it in his head like a series of ordered instructions.

Jeans unzipped and off, boxers dropped and turned around. Hoisted up onto the counter in a feverish manner and Heero’s hands around the back his thighs as he pulled his legs apart. For a moment the weight of a pair of eyes was on him, across his shoulders and down his chest to his knees that were pointed out, two white endings juxtaposed to his shins. There were hands sweeping across his shoulders, then back down to his legs and a strategically placed bite on his hip. Heero was making foreign sounds in the back of his throat as his hand disappeared down the front of the jeans he was wearing. There was a jerky motion, a trembling body, a wet mouth on Trowa’s cock. He shivered.

“Tell me to stop,” Heero had pulled away, whispering so that his voice sounded strange and terribly conflicted.

“No,” Trowa replied, and his hands found the top of Heero’s head where he was kneeling and separated the strands of hair carefully. There was something final about the way his fingers moved in delicate motions through the unruly hair, and Heero didn’t pursue his plea.

Then he was being moved again and he let himself be directed, balanced on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor as Heero knelt behind him. There was a weighted pause until a hand went between his legs and Heero’s thumb rubbed over the wet tip of his cock, and he opened his mouth to let out a scream that never came. His teeth gritted in a way he hadn’t felt, an anxiety that was not like pain or any sort of suffering he had ever known, just the desire to explode with the same light and heat as an atomic bomb.

Something wet was near his entrance and he felt exposed, humiliated yet safe, violated yet grateful. There was something wonderful in this terrible act. Heero’s tongue penetrated him and he closed his eyes, trying not to collapse and then he did detonate; the life compacted in his veins flowed out and the taut line between he and Heero snapped.

Then it was good, joyful even, as Heero shuddered and warm fluid dripped onto the backs of his legs. To both of them, tomorrow was merely an inconvenient afterthought.


End file.
